Ralph looked around the room at the faces of the marines assembled. What was that on their faces? Tiredness? Disappointment? Or just plain apathy? It was hard to tell. One thing was for certain, though: everybody was ready for some action. After half a year in hypersleep, anyone would be. Blood lust, combined with a bit of excess energy, was the perfect drive for combat, and this motley crew had both.
But what was all this junk about mother not telling Cominsky about the mission? Certainly the Company didn't fear for their safety; perish the thought. The USCM was often treated as cannon fodder, and death was part of the everyday business. No, there was something else to all the secrecy around their mission. Something elusive . . . no doubts there. The Company had had its share of shady dealings, and Ralph felt himself being slowly sucked into yet another conspiracy.
But he resolved to wait things out. It couldn't hurt him any . . . right?
Ralph was torn from his train of thought as Stan Giger burst into the room, a cigarette dangling from his pursed lips. "The good ol' briefing room," he sighed, easing his way into one of the uncomfortable metal chairs. "Just as sterile and ugly as it was when we were all put under." He sat back, and took a long, elated puff, then smiled self contentedly.
"I have to agree with that," Pieper spoke up. "Tell me something: why don't they ever have nice accommodations for us aboard these POS cruisers? You know, some soft, cushy carpeting, a couple of leather easy chairs, maybe some mini-bars in the rooms . . ."
"A couple of expensive hookers, too," Ragsdale added. "Of course, we've always got you, Pieper - -" On this note, the bride-to-be stood up from her seat, raised her fist, and gave Ragsdale an uppercut that sent him spinning out of his chair and onto the cold floor.
"And that's just for starters, jerk," she cursed, walking proudly back over to her seat. "One more comment like that and I'll have you up on charges." Though it was humorous to see both of them get into it like that, Ralph did have to admit that Ragsdale's comment was a bit uncalled for. He had always been old school in his attitudes regarding courtesy around the opposite sex - - when in the presence of women, one needed to tone one's hormones down a little and show them the respect they deserved.
Ragsdale rubbed his chin lovingly. "Sorry, Pieper. My bad," he moaned, still sprawled out on the floor. Apparently, the woman had done some damage: the muscular private was rubbing his thumb over a chipped incisor, feeling the pain of exposed nerve endings and the grit of ground enamel. "Gotta get Pope to patch that up," he muttered, heaving himself back up onto his legs.
Quite a motley crew, indeed, Ralph thought, remaining silent. Over the course of the past few years, he had become quite attached to his platoon; he looked upon them as his lost brothers and sisters, united by fate and a few lucky hands. Speaking of which, Cominsky still owes me twenty bucks from that game this morning, he mused. Better get that from him before shore leave.
"Speak of the devil," Ralph whispered. Cominsky had just walked into the room, decked out in his fatigues and carrying a paper readout from mother. In this imposing outfit, he appeared to be super-human, a figure who inspired courage and might in his troops. Yes, Cominsky was quite possibly the best commanding officer that Ralph had ever seen. None of his others had quite the same strength and sheer power; they had been whiny, anal retentive men who had only earned their positions because their dear daddies knew someone who knew someone who had USCM connections.
But Cominsky had earned his rank, through years of blood, sweat, tears, experience, and discrimination. He was a man's man, a model soldier who, though probably forgot by the annals of history, would remain in the memory of those who served under him.
"Straighten it up, privates!" he bellowed. "We have some serious business to do here!"
Ralph raised his hand.
"What is it, Ralph?"
"Where exactly are we, sir?"
"Mother says we're in somewhere in the Delta sector, next to an uncharted M-Class planetoid," came his reply.
"In English?" Pieper asked exasperatedly.
"In English, Nadia, we're way the hell off in space, next to a planet that no one has ever set foot on."
"I'm willing to bet that it's our little tootsies the Company wants to put there, right Sarge?"
"You're exactly right," Cominsky answered, sitting down. "Mother had direct orders to wake the crew if any 'oddities' were found here." He paused, surveying the confused faces of his troops. "And she apparently found some . . . so we have to investigate." A murmur went through the mess hall as the twelve marines discussed their recent orders.
"Sergeant, you know as well as I do that there are no oddities - - the Company knows exactly what's down there," Ralph said.
"Still," Cominsky countered, "Orders are orders, Smartie. And there's nothing we can do about that." He leaned back in his chair, and Ralph chuckled as he imagined the flimsy thing crumpling under Cominsky's massive form.
"How do we know if we can survive on this rock?" Giger asked.
"Mother has performed a surface scan. She informs me that we will be safe without our vacuum suits."
"Has this world been terraformed? That's kind of bizarre, for it to be perfect, isn't it?"
"All records show that the atmosphere has never been altered. It's one of those fluke worlds, the kind that supports life . . . of course, bear in mind that it is habitable, and not hospitable. Air pressure and gravity is a little above normal, and there's a high nitrogen content. Scans have shown absolutely no water, and the sun gets as hot as hell in the daytime - - so pack your sunscreen, girl scouts."
"We don't have to worry about decompression sickness, radiation posioning, barotrauma?"
"Nope. Like I said, Mother says she checks out fine." Cominsky took a deep breath, his enormous chest heaving up and down. "Any other questions?"
A voice came from the back - - a voice Ralph didn't recognize, most likely a rookie - - and shouted, "When do we go, then?" Ralph found himself sickened by the boy's over-excited tone.
"We board the drop ships in twenty minutes. I want everyone suited up and ready to go, equipment shining and working like new. Remember, an unprepared marine is a dead marine. Got that?"
An apathetic "yes" came from the soldiers.
Cominsky gave an approving look, like that of a proud papa who had taught his son the necessary skills for life. "Then get your asses in gear, privates!"
An unholy roar of combined voices filled the room with an animalistic air as the pair dueled it out in the ring. This had gone far beyond the usual wrestling matches . . . This was war. The enraged pair were locked in a bear hug that would crush even the strongest man like a toothpick.
The clan's leader, Li'chinde, watched in stone criticism, mentally noting every move they made. Tichandi was standing in a manner that offset his balance; if Rrajigii noticed this, it would be simple to put him on the floor.
Unfortunately for Tichandi, Rrajigii saw this error and charged Tichandi, ripping the snot-nose from the ground and slamming him to the floor in a thud that was almost lost in the roars and hisses of approval from the other students. Tichandi's tusks flared in surprise and anger, then he jumped back up and boxed Rrajigii in the mouth, sending glowing green thwei spurting from his mouth. Rrajigii spat the glowing mess on Tichandi and then wiped the rest of it from his face.
That's when he lost it.
Rrajigii dropped to the floor and rolled to Tichandi, raising his fist so that it flew into his opponent's stomach. Then he jumped up faster than any human could and tore into Tichandi with a series of punches that battered Tichandi's body, shattering muscle and bone in a matter of seconds. Neon blood was thrown over the ring from Tichandi's ghastly mouth and the many cuts and stabs he'd endured from Rrajigii's talons. The others roared with approval as Tichandi fell to the mat like a rag doll. Rrajigii threw his fist to the ceiling and trumpeted a prayer of conquest to Paya, the god of war, mixing with the clicks and rumbles of his classmates.
Li'chinde reflected on what he'd seen and ordered two of the students to drag Tichandi to the infirmary. Tichandi'd be okay, assuming that he were treated within a few hours. This was a pretty big ship, but he could trust even these snot-noses to get him there in time.
These . . . children. Li'chinde's lips curled at the thought. He could have gone with the other males to search the galaxy for suitable game, but no. He chose to stay back and - - eventually - - become a clan leader, dragging these kids around by their loincloths to train and strengthen them so they could take his position. What had he been thinking? This life seemed so much better when he didn't have it. But, he also knew that soon these big apes would be Blooded and he'd be able to take them on better, more dangerous, more spectacular hunts and songs of praise would be sung of his clan for years to come.
Li'chinde almost smiled at the idea. But instead, he turned and walked from the arena, roaring behind his back to the Unblooded that they should go to the exercise room and prepare for their first Hunt. In the meantime, he'd figure out where they are.
The time-beaten clan leader marched proudly through the twisting, fog-ridden passages to the bridge, located at the other side of the craft. His eyes occasionally glanced about these dank halls, surveying the skulls suspended from the ceiling on chains. When he reached one of the many arched doors, he punched in a code on the keypad (steps were now taken to prevent another incident like what happened with the Blooded ooman named Noguchi) and stepped into the cramped bridge, populated only by the pilots. These were the oldest yautja on the ship; too old or apathetic to continue with the hunt, but not quite dead, either. The elderly tended to gravitate to piloting so their minds would stay sharp in the waning years.
"Where are we?" ordered Li'chinde, fixing his coal-black eyes upon the head pilot. The language he spoke in echoed through the halls in a series of gutteral clicks and grunts.
"We're near the planet. We'll arrive before the sun rises on the east hemisphere tomorrow."
"Good," Li'chinde responded. "Yechanjii!" he roared to one of the others, "Have any transmissions been recieved?"
The geriatric titan's tusks moved about a moment, as though stretching from a deep slumber. Finally, they worked with his mouth to shout back, "A strange transmission was recieved from the planet's surface. I'm not quite sure, but I believe it's a distress call."
Li'chinde's curiosity was piqued. A distress call? They were almost unheard of from the yautja. He ordered Yechanjii to play it over. He listened carefully. Moments later, his spiked eyebrows shot up in astonishment. Whoever was speaking was not yautja. The oomans were on the planet!
Li'chinde began to wonder if the sacred hunt should be held elsewhere. After all, hunting the oomans was bound by law as being strictly for the Blooded warriors. Although his experiences with these bizarre creatures were few in number, they proved why; the oomans were an intellegent quarry that could shoot back. Li'chinde's blood still froze at the prospect of hunting them, even after all these years.
Of course, what worried Li'chinde most was not the oomans themselves, but what they were doing. For whenever oomans were in an area, the world itself seemed to mutate as they rooted in. Glittering steel constructs burst from the ground, while the oomans collected animals to turn them into living weapons. Even he couldn't deny that oomans were a strange and frightening species.
All the better to keep them off our hunting land . . .
Li'chinde focused back onto the message, listening intently to try and decipher its meaning. The transmitter was obviously terrified, and speaking in a high, fast voice. Li'chinde had learned a bit of the ooman's language, and hoped he'd learned enough to know what this person was saying.
Something something something attack, Xenomorph something inside something something Emergency!
Li'chinde almost laughed at the idea. These bizarre, hostile, powerful beings were being demolished by the Kiande amedha! This meant the ooman's forces would be depleted by the time they got there. Maybe the hunt wouldn't be so bad here, after all. All that had to be done was keep the snot-noses away from the oomans and all would be well.
"Li'chinde!" roared the head pilot, snapping the clan leader to attention. "An ooman ship is orbiting the planet! What do we do?"
The warrior sat back and thought a moment. Finally, he grunted back, "We hide. The oomans won't need to know we were here. We hunt the kiande amedha, nothing more. Not this time."
The head pilot shrugged his broad shoulders and directed the craft away from the ooman transport. Why did those creatures need ships that large, anyway? Especially when there are only 20 or so lifeforms on board . . . Wasteful Paukers.
"Because you always pull the short straw." Ragsdale started and whipped around, only to be face-to-barrel with Cominsky's pulse rifle. The young man practically fainted from a combination of fright and relief. "Better watch your back, kid," he rumbled, pulling a piece of chewing gum out of a jacket pocket. "Rule one: never, ever lose your guard. I thought they taught you that in training." He stepped past his subordinate.
"Sorry, Sarge."
"Yeah, I bet you'd be sorry if I had shot that thing," Cominsky chomped. "I hate to be a ball-breaker, bud, but it's time to get down to business." He made a few quick hand signals to Weaver, the pilot, a beautiful young lady in her mid-twenties, and the rest of his platoon poured down the dropship's ramp, grunting and lauging all the way, their weapons slung by their sides comfortably.
Soon, their cheerful attitudes stopped as they took in their surroundings for the first time. A few silent moments passed.
"This place gives me the willies," Pieper replied, clutching her rifle. "Something's just . . . weird." She squinted out at the horizon that stretched endlessly in all directions.
"What's weird? There's nothing here to be weird!" Ragsdale chuckled, gesturing to the desert. It was true; nothing but dirt and rocks could be seen anywhere around, and the sky glowed a bizarre stark-white.
"I think that's what she means," Ralph mumbled, scanning the area with the same pale expression as his friend. "Shouldn't we see mountains or something?" He licked his index finger and held it above his head. "And where's the wind?"
"I think we've found the oddities, Sarge," Ragsdale said. "This place is generally screwed up. Mission over, let's go home." Cominsky shot him a glare.
Giger brushed a few drops of sweat off his forehead. "I've been here for thirty seconds and I'm already sweating. Place kinda reminds me of Ryushi. Just as boring, but not nearly as cool." He looked at his comrades. "Anyone else ever been there?"
"I have," Pope said in his cool tones. The android looked in Giger's direction, his medical satchel slung over his shoulder. "I was the colony doctor there for a while. It's a fluke world, too - - no terraforming ever took place there." Pope paused. "Though these types of planets are rare, they're not unheard of."
Cominsky shook his head. "Well, we can't stand around and talk all day. There's work to be done. We have orders to search this world and see if anything's out of the ordinary." He turned to look at the wastelands. "But where do we start?" he asked himself under his breath.
"Sir!" Rodney Dorsey, a new recruit, exclaimed, pressing his headset close to his ear. "I'm picking up a distress signal from the southwest . . . about two miles out . . ." He stopped to listen, and soon the entire platoon was watching him. "Something about someone being under attack . . . too much static . . . 'emergency'." He looked up to Cominsky. "Sir . . . I think whoever it was is dead now."
Cominsky nodded. "That's it. We're heading off in the direction of that transmission. Everybody, let's start walking."
"Walking?" Ralph asked. "Wouldn't it be easier to get back in the dropship, sir? Or get an APC from the ship?"
"No. If it's hostiles, they might shoot us down, or have anti-tank artillery. They won't expect us to be coming in on foot. Besides, the walk'll do you good, private."
Ragsdale snorted, watching everyone start off. "Ball-breaker is the truth," he whispered.
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